The Shadow's Reach
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: The mission to Solitude sounded simple enough, but shadows waited for the unwary. They didn't intend to let their prey live, no matter how far a thief might run.
1. Chapter 1

Chronology:

Winter in Riften

Learning the Hard Way

Taking a Sick Day

The Shadow's Reach

* * *

The road from Riften looked bleak in the early morning light, promising a long journey. The stable boy had finished saddling her horse, and Prim led the animal the first few steps down the path. Its spotted coat was what had originally drawn her eye and led to the purchase—that and the horse's eager attitude. Even now, he tugged at the reins, urging her to mount so they might be off, and making her smile. He would serve her well, although she would perhaps leave him in Whiterun on the return journey from Solitude. Farkas would be sure to regularly run the animal in the countryside, being more mindful of his care than herself.

"You're all set, lass?"

She hoisted her traveling pack with a smile.

"All set," she echoed.

Brynjolf stood beside her in his merchant's garb, breath frosty and green eyes sparkling. He'd wanted to join her on the trip, but Mercer had given him other directives since she would already be joining another thief near Solitude.

"I could have gotten you the horse for free," he commented.

"But I want to keep this one stabled here, I think. Quilt. Such a cute name." She scratched the horse's mane, and grinned when he bumped his head against hers. "I wish you were coming along," she said. "It's going to be a long ride."

"Aye, but the guild's more vulnerable than ever with this business. Trust me, lass. I wish I were going with you too, but I'm needed here. Maven is a bit upset right now."

"Is that why Mercer was in such a foul mood?"

They walked a bit further down the road, away from the city walls and any prying ears. Trees towered above them, bare and skeletal against a white sky.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about it," Brynjolf confided. "One of Maven's shipments disappeared on the way to Winterhold. She doesn't blame us, of course. It was probably bandits, but any cut in profits makes her temper short, and she's demanding more from the guild in turn. Mercer won't have any of it, and when those two throw down gauntlets, it's never pretty."

"I didn't know," she mused. She'd sensed Mercer's darkened mood the last few days, but hadn't known its source. She'd thought it was his lingering sickness, but apparently not. She wasn't even certain that anyone in the guild realized he'd been bedridden for a few days, during which he'd been restless and strangely peaceful by turn. Confusing man. At least he hadn't bitten her head off for returning to Riftweald with a potion and food each morning. The thought even made her smile, the key to his home tucked snuggly beneath her armor. He hadn't said a word about it yet.

Brynjolf gave her shoulder a pat, drawing her from thought.

"Just focus on the mission," he advised her. "And be mindful of pushing him. You have a special way of antagonizing him, lass. He's already going gray. No need to hasten it."

"He goes out of his way to make things difficult for me," she retorted.

"Oh, I know," Brynjolf smiled. "I never know what will happen when the two of you cross paths. I just don't want you to make the mistake of pushing him too far—for your own sake and his. If you haven't noticed, most in the guild don't speak to him unless it's strictly business. It shouldn't be that way, lass. It really shouldn't." His smile dimmed, tainted by something unnamed. "Delvin's been here longer than me, and I can't tell you the last time he and Mercer just sat down and talked. It's like..."

Brynjolf didn't often show worry, but Prim read it in his stance. The man crossed arms over his chest, a breeze playing with his hair while he considered the Rift's forested crests. This was lovely countryside, too lovely to be spoiled by dampened spirits. She didn't want to set off this way, and yearned to reassure Brynjolf somehow, yet there was nothing to say. He was right. Mercer had never sat down with them in the Flagon to chat or play games, bullshit and talk shop, and when he did appear, he was more observer than participant.

"I don't want to warn you off, lass. I think it does everyone good to see him talking with more than just me on a regular basis. I just want you to be careful."

"Sometimes it doesn't really feel like he's with us," she quietly mused.

"I wish it were otherwise, but that's how he is," Brynjolf shrugged, his weary expression suggesting to Prim that he'd done his share trying to change the man. Sometimes the two talked like old friends, and sometimes she sensed conflict between them, two opposites in personality and thought trying to run the guild together. "Even when I was a footpad," Brynjolf told her, "he didn't involve himself with anyone beyond guild business very often. The old guildmaster, Gallus, agreed to take me on after Mercer caught me filching food. I was only twelve at the time. Mercer was his second in command. He spent time in the Flagon with everyone back then, but preferred working alone. He was always a bit distant."

"When did Mercer take over?"

"When Gallus was murdered. I was just a wee thing when we met. Mercer called me rat tail. Taught me to pick locks, and took me on jobs sometimes. One time, he had to save my ass because I wasn't tall enough to climb over a wall after him." Prim could imagine a younger Mercer scowling and lifting Brynjolf by his britches, reprimanding him for being short. Her grin matched Brynjolf's. "I'll tell you all about it when you're back," he promised.

"Oh, I think this story might be worth hearing now."

"I could regale you with stories all day, lass, but you've got a job to do. I've delayed you long enough. When you get back. I promise."

Prim swung up onto Quilt, and stared down at Brynjolf. He was holding out a wrapped bundle to her, a quick toss of fabric revealing a hot honey roll.

"For the road."

"You're the best," she winked, biting into the pastry and wobbling when Quilt unexpectedly took off. She waved over her shoulder while fumbling for the reins, Brynjolf's laughter following her down the road.

* * *

Solitude's stables were perched below the city's main entrance, peacefully overlooking the road that wound south into Skyrim's heartland. The stone and wood structures were simple and to Prim's liking, unlike the massive walls under which she would pass tomorrow or tonight perhaps. It had been a long time since she'd entered a city of this size and grandeur. The towers and sweeping mansions of such places were almost unheard of in Skyrim, even Markath, which was more of an inhabited ruin. She would concern herself with that later, once she found the thief who was supposedly waiting for her.

"Welcome, traveler!" a Nord greeted.

"I am expected, I believe?" she probed. "By a Henric?"

"Ah, Henric. Yes. He's got a room on the second floor. My wife can show you the way."

Prim handed off Quilt's reins and marched inside, glad to be near a fire. The master's wife led her to a small room, and supplied a tray of hot food, all expenses having been paid in advance. She wondered at that since this Henric was supposedly an associate of the guild and a thief in his own right. She would have expected him to be hiding in the forest somewhere, nabbing sweet rolls from travelers and inns.

"Hello?"

She knocked on the door, and cautiously invited herself inside when there was no answer. A hooded figure knelt by the room's bed, a small statue with outstretched arms on the floor before him. Candlelight shone across its ebony surface and delicate, feminine features. This couldn't be the right room, but Prim remained frozen in the doorway with the tray in her hands. A shiver raced up her spine when the man began chanting.

_Back out of the room. Close the door... _

"So you have arrived." The man's voice was a gentle tenor, and when he turned to face her, she could she see that he was a Nord. Red curls framed his face, a splash of freckles across youthful cheeks.

"Are you Henric?"

"I am."

"In that case, I came as quickly as I could. Prim." She extended a hand that he stared at a long moment before accepting.

"You came alone?" he questioned.

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"I communicated with Mercer. I thought he might come as well given his personal investment in the matter. Although," he gently smiled. "I suppose that has yet to be determined."

Prim did not understand his comment, and quietly sealed the door as she calculated the risk of being alone with this stranger. He was gently wrapping his statue and tucking it inside a bag. Nocturnal, she realized. She did not think it particularly wise to trust a daedra worshiper.

"Do you also honor our lady of the night?" Henric questioned.

What in Oblivion was this man about? Prim stalled, studying his serious visage.

"No," she simply answered. "Is there a reason you'd think that?"

"You are in the guild. I thought perhaps you might. I suppose the atmosphere is less...pious with someone like your current leader. He never cared for her. Few do beneath their skin. Those of us who are devout are rarities."

Such strong statements, but this man was clearly young, perhaps younger than herself. How much could he possibly know of Mercer Frey and the guild?

"I don't think he's particularly pious about anything," she tried to joke. "And daedra don't want devotion so much as blood from everything I've seen. I wouldn't entrust my fate to such fickle beings, no offense."

"You are very blunt," he spoke, eventually smiling. "I am not one to judge. Perhaps you are even the wiser between us. Many share your view, though they swear her allegiance. Better to never get involved than get involved and think you'll outwit the game."

She didn't know what to make of this man and his strange words, and wanted to drop the subject entirely, intriguing as it was. Did the guild have some sort of connection with Nocturnal? Surely Brynjolf would have mentioned it in their many conversations.

"So about this Gulum-Ei," she redirected.

"Ah, him. I have all the information you need. You can handle the rest. I will be waiting here when you are finished."

"You're not coming with me?"

"I have gathered everything for you in advance, but dare not show myself in the city, not this one. I have been gathering information for Mercer for several weeks now, not just here. I will intervene only if you need assistance."

"Should I expect difficulties?" she questioned.

"There have been shadows as of late," he frowned. "I would have entrusted Mercer with all information in advance, but I fear that some of my correspondences were intercepted before reaching Riften. I thought it best to wait for you. These shadows...I have yet to see one clearly, but they are here. I do not know if there is only one, or if they take turns watching me. Sometimes I think Nocturnal has turned a blind eye to me. "

_Typical daedra_, Prim darkly thought. Hircine wasn't much better, and she'd certainly never considered praying to or honoring him. She was bound to him through her beast blood, nothing more.

"They have probably already noticed your presence," Henric continued. "You must be careful."

"Tell me everything you know."

He sat on the bed, and patted the mattress. It was only with reluctance that she joined him, and he opened a map across their laps. It was a layout of the city, his finger moving across it as he rattled off information at an alarming rate. The man was thorough, detailed to a fault, and by the time she left to find Gulum-Ei, her head overflowed with information, but it was not the warehouse guards or the night watch, or even the blasted confines of the city itself that occupied her thoughts. Rather, Henric's parting words crawled through her skull.

_"There is much at stake here, and I am not convinced we are on the right side. Don't forget that the guild has a much longer history than you know. Is your loyalty to yourself, the guild, or something else? You must bear that in mind. The shadows watch." _

"One odd man," she muttered beneath her breath.

He'd even insisted on blessing her in Nocturnal's name, slipping a black ribbon around her wrist as a symbol of the unwanted blessing. Divines, but she couldn't wait to get back to Riften. She passed beneath Solitude's entrance with every nerve in her body afire. There were so many crevices, alleys, and shadows, and whoever _they_ were could be anywhere, if they were even real. By the time she reached the inn where Gulum-Ei liked to drink, she was almost as paranoid at Henric.


	2. Chapter 2

Water. There was water everywhere, and she couldn't tell which way was up. Prim clawed at the liquid, kicking her feet and fighting to hold her breath. Her head screamed in pain from the blow that had befallen her—the explosion that had catapulted her into the cavern's water—and where in Oblivion was Gulum-Ei?

She surfaced, gasping and sputtering as flames danced around her. The cave where the Argonian had carried out his black-market activities had been stacked with crates that now blazed. Thick smoke choked the air, and she knew without a doubt that the blood in the water was hers. Reaching a rock, she hoisted herself onto dry ground, still coughing and wheezing.

_Nothing serious,_ she realized. She hadn't suffered serious wounds, although her head throbbed. Where had that blasted lizard gone? She stumbled forward and nearly tripped over the very object of her search, eyes widening as she noticed the arrow lodged in his left eye. With sickening clarity, she understood what had happened. The thud of an arrow had been followed by an eruption of flames meant to consume both her and him. She had to get out. Now.

Prim faltered down a nearby tunnel, running. There was a hidden entrance into the cove somewhere ahead, and she let her nose guide her toward the fresh air. Too much smoke was clogging the tunnel for her to worry about pursuit or an attack. Surely the perpetrator had already fled, but damn what a shot, and she'd never sensed someone following her!

She tripped out of the cavern and toward the shore, the world outside deceptively calm and ignorant of what had transpired. She hadn't even accomplished her mission, having just cornered Gulum-Ei when the assassin attacked. A little information was better than nothing though. A woman had approached him with enough gold to turn him away from the guild and broker the Goldenglow deal. She'd requested his assistance in derailing Maven's sales as well, and then there was the hate for Mercer.

"_She hates your boss. Said so herself. She wants to see his bones bleached in the sun."_

Prim coughed and touched a hand to the cut on her head. What was going on with this whole affair? She wasn't sure if death was worth an answer as she picked her way along the shore and then toward the stables.

_If it's even safe to return_, she dourly thought. But Quilt was still there, and to her surprise, Henric was saddling him.

"Henric, we need to..."

"Leave," he finished. "Yes. Quickly."

He was already climbing atop the horse, and motioned to her, grabbing her hand and lifting her up. As if sensing their desperation, Quilt immediately took off, down the road and through the countryside. The horse would not be able to maintain such a speed for long, especially with two riders, but the widening distance between them and Solitude eased Prim's nerves. She wasn't even particularly sure where they were as her head slumped against Henric's back, aching and demanding she rest.

"Not here," Henric suddenly barked.

She jerked upright and clung to him, realizing that they had entered a hilly area with few trees. Looking behind, she saw no sign of pursuit, and the day continued in that fashion. Quilt would rest for short periods, and they took turns walking as the sun finished its arch through the sky. Prim was in no condition to fight or hold the reins, but felt much recovered by nightfall. Neither she nor Henric would risk a fire, and so they huddled together with their traveling blankets, keeping watch and dozing by turn.

"It happened so," she griped.

"You're lucky to be alive. There was a shadow around the stables, but it disappeared when you went to Solitude. I wondered whether you would meet him. Her? Him or her. It doesn't matter."

"Whoever it is, I hope they're as cold as us right now."

"Sleep. We ride hard again tomorrow."

She sighed and closed her eyes, thankful that no one had accompanied her. She couldn't imagine seeing Brynjolf dead beside Gulum-Ei, or Mercer, or any of them. Her hands curled into the blanket as her breathing relaxed, sleep drawing ever closer.

"Prim!" The harsh whisper jerked her awake. "Keep your sword ready."

She tossed the blanket aside, and drew her weapon, crouching beside Henric in the dark. If something or someone was approaching from the north, she could not smell them. The wind was against her this evening, and the night impenetrably silent. They were in the middle of nowhere with no help to be had.

"I'll take a look," Henric offered.

"I'm coming with you."

They moved toward the hill north of them, hoping to gain a vantage point. Whatever had disturbed Henric, she wasn't willing to call it simple paranoia. The man had been right so far, and her own senses hinted that something was amiss. They crested the hill, low to the ground, and peered into the darkness. Prim spotted nothing but a fox streaking across the land, the sky overhead starry and stretching onward over the tundra for eternity.

"The shadow is here," Henric whispered.

"We should draw them to us," Prim suggested. "I see nothing from this distance."

"What makes you think he isn't close?"

She thought of how close Mercer had come to her in the forests of the Rift, and shivered. This was not Mercer though. This person meant to shed her blood.

"There," Henric pointed.

She followed his hand, and for a moment, saw nothing. Then a figure moved, and her wolf snarled. Here, in the wilderness, she could release it without fear and have the shadow's head. Her hackles rose and teeth lengthened unconsciously, the transformation threatening to continue until a dull sound disrupted the night. Henric slumped forward with a groan, two arrows lodged in his chest.

"Henric!"

She rolled him onto his back. Blood seeped from his mouth, his breath ragged.

"Go," he urged. "Leave."

He was expiring fast, and Prim had no choice but to descend the hill toward Quilt. Two fetching arrows. Two! Was there only one shadow with remarkable speed on her tail, or more than one? She swung onto Quilt, and took off into the night, more concerned with delivering her news to Riften and surviving than settling a score with her attacker. She thought she was a safe distance when an arrow struck through her shoulder, radiating pain that continued to seep outward, first red hot, then numbing.

_Poison, _she feared, but there was no time to stop, and she had carried no medicine. She gripped the reins until her hands ached; dug her heels into the horse's sides. It was a mad dash with little rest, dozing in the saddle and slowing only when Quilt required a break. Sometimes she fell into feverish dreams where a woman in dark robes opened her arms as if to embrace her, but smiles morphed, twisted, swallowing her whole. Morning came, and she could barely hold herself in the saddle. Afternoon came, and she collapsed by a river.

She tarried on the bank, broke the arrowhead free, and pulled the rest from her body. She threw up, head hanging over the water, where she saw a dark figure staring back at her. Where feverish dream and reality collided, she did not know, and with frantic movements, she splashed the water as if to chase the vision away.

"Quilt," she called.

The horse joined her at the water, taking much needed refreshment. Could she even get back in the saddle? She grimaced and closed her eyes for but a moment, yet she plunged into a darkness so complete that she thought the world had winked out of existence.

_"_You have a defiant soul."

The words rustled through the shadows, sweet as lilac, and Prim's eyes snapped open against her body's will to find the sky again filled with stars. It was night now, or was she still dreaming? Quilt was nearby, nostrils flared and hooves shifting. The air reeked of his anxiety, which quickly added to her own. She could not fight like this—didn't even know if she was awake, damn it, although it seemed she was.

She bit her lip to keep from groaning as she moved onto her knees. She could feel nothing in her right arm but for the fingers, which might have held coals for how they burned. It was not enough to keep her wilted on the ground though, and she slowly rose, amazed by how bottomless the river now looked. It flowed black, but beneath its surface, rocks gleamed like gems. Rubies. Sapphires. Emeralds. She teetered and reeled back when a shadow brushed her cheek.

"Would you drink from the river of shadows?" a woman's voice asked. "I could grant you many powers. Many dreams."

Prim was momentarily dazzled by the precious stones, but turned away. She needed to mount Quilt and reach Riften. Whatever this being wanted, real or imagine, it could go to Oblivion.

"So stubborn," the voice soothed. "I am fond of ones like you. So defiant in forging your own paths, yet so predictable. Will you turn to betrayal like the last one? No, I think not. Keep my blessing for the night, thief, as Henric's last request, weak as my touch on this world is."

Prim cursed and nearly screamed as she managed to mount Quilt. A rustle in the bushes meant trouble—meant a saber cat by the sound of it—but when the beast appeared, it passed her as though it did not see possible prey. She shivered and urged Quilt onward, unsure if she was even heading in the right direction. Never had a journey taken so long, and by the time she reached Riften, her endurance was stretched near breaking. She left Quilt at the gates, unattended, and stumbled into Riften.

Why was no one making a scene? Oh, it was dark, perhaps the middle of the night. Day four? Five? She was so close to the cistern, if she could just get there, but what if someone was watching? Her stomach churned, and she retched against a building, drawing the gaze of a guard, who she warded off with a quick word. No, she couldn't go to the cistern. What if she revealed its hidden entrance to her shadow? Or if she expired in the Ratway trying to get there the long way?

She reached into her armor and pulled a key free.

_Mercer_, her mind whispered. She would go to Riftweald, or was she already there? She unlocked a door and crashed inside, quickly becoming confused in the home's dark interior. She tried to go upstairs, found her legs too heavy, and settled for a chair. Where, she didn't know, but a sense of security settled over her. She wanted so desperately to sleep.

Suddenly, a hand was touching her. She jerked away, but it held her chin fast, tilting her face upward. Her eyes cracked open to find themselves level with a frowning mouth.

"Mercer?"

Something cold pressed against her lips, and liquid poured down her throat. She gulped at it, wobbling while someone held her steady. This entire place smelled like him, his fingers curled around the back of her neck as she drank. With the potion in her system, a spark of clarity made her eyes snap fully open.

"Riften," she breathed. She tried standing, but firm hands gripped her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the chair. She sputtered and stared at the guildmaster, his armor replaced by a loose tunic and pants for sleeping. His hair was messy, as if she'd roused him from bed, and perhaps she had. She stared at him a moment, grimacing when she shifted her body.

"Bandages," she requested. "And clean water."

He silently obliged, setting a bowl of water and cloth on the table before her. There was a second potion too, and she quickly downed it, nauseated by the potent contents when she hadn't eaten in who knew how long. It was struggle enough to keep from throwing up, and she bent forward, hands braced on her knees as she fought the urge.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," she mumbled.

"How bad?" he asked.

"I should be dead."

Light flashed to life before her—a lantern that taunted her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut as he unbuckled her leather armor, hissing in pain when the material pulled away from her wound. His fingers quickly unlaced the top of her tunic, pulling it aside to expose her right shoulder. He pressed a cloth into her hands, and then disappeared, although she could hear him telling Vald to fetch Brynjolf. Then he was beside her, making no move to assist in the cleaning of her wound, but reaching out to balance her when she wavered.

"What happened?"

"Gulum-Ei was assassinated. Then the sodding assassin blew up the cargo and nearly killed me in the process. Henric, the thief you had me meet in Solitude, helped me get out alive. We were coming here when the bastard got him too. I'm not sure if it's one person or more. They could be in the city already. Right now."

She was surprised when Mercer reached out and took her hand, almost tenderly, although his gaze was hard. He fingered the black ribbon around her wrist, something dark stirring in his eyes before he ripped it off.

"Henric insisted," she distractedly spoke.

"He would."

He ran a thumb over her flesh, where the ribbon had been, and then dropped her hand. She wondered at his reaction, but in her condition, didn't particularly care. She dropped the dirtied cloth into the bowl, and fingered a roll of linen. Wrapping the wound herself would be too painful.

"I need your help," she stated, raising arms above her head with determination. "Tunic. Off."

He grabbed her sleeves and pulled the tunic over her head, leaving her bare but for the bindings over her breasts. She focused on his fingers to keep her mind occupied—the way he unrolled and separated the linen, his expression stern and gray hair dangling in his face. He worked in silence, perhaps aware that she had little energy for speech. She was content to waver where she sat, tended to by his firm but efficient assistance. She now had enough presence to realize she was sitting in the dining room, the table set with candelabras and goblets that had collected dust. She'd noticed the disuse on her previous visits, the silver cup by Mercer's bed the only one that ever seemed to be employed.

"How long was I gone?" she asked.

"Ten days. We weren't expecting you for another two."

She hissed when he pulled the bandage tight and secured it with a knot. She needed to distract herself with something: the nearby cabinet with its alcohol and unused serving dishes, the bowl of water, now reddened, and an inkling that Mercer had never sat at this table in his life.

"Are you going to pass out?" he asked.

"Not sure." She offered him a weak, humorless smile. "Don't be a bastard and let me fall."

The words had barely left her lips when Brynjolf appeared, the man's eyes widening at the sight of her.

"Prim! By the nine, what happened?"

He crouched before her, brushing hair from her face and tucking it behind her ears. Her smile was strained but affectionate as he fussed over her, insisting on cleaning the dirt and grime from her face. His fingers brushed over her cheeks, soothing her pain as she repeated what she'd shared with Mercer thus far. The guildmaster was leaning against the wall, watching her and Brynjolf with a stony expression.

"Have you had a potion?" Brynjolf asked.

"Two. Mercer gave them to me."

"Mercer, I think she's..."

"Poisoned?" Mercer offered. "She is. I gave her a potion to counteract it. She should have another soon, but if she doesn't eat first, she'll just spit it up."

She briefly recalled Mercer leaning against the wall, throwing up, and doubted she'd ever see him so vulnerable again. He looked anything but weak standing there, eyes following Brynjolf's hands as the redhead fastened his cloak over her shoulders, hiding the bandage from sight. She briefly met the guildmaster's gaze, and was struck by its intensity, an uneasy feeling squirming in the pit of her stomach, although whether it was the potion, poison, or something else, she couldn't say.

"Thanks, Bryn," she smiled.

"Did you managed to speak to Gulum-Ei before his murder?" Mercer asked.

"Perhaps we could get her something to eat first," Brynjolf suggested, a reproving touch to the look he shot Mercer. The two men regarded each other silently for a moment, Mercer eventually motioning toward a doorway.

"There's bread and cheese in the kitchen."

In Brynjolf's absence, the man moved closer. His smothering scent contrasted so starkly with Brynjolf's, and Prim breathed deeply, unable to explain why the man's scent calmed her. Maybe because here was someone who would take on the shadow without question. She could almost imagine him cutting the attacker down, sneering in disgust at the ease with which he did it, or anger for interfering with the guild. She looked into his stern visage, and began slipping forward.

"Bring the food to the sitting room," Mercer ordered, wrapping an arm around her waist. With his aid, she was guided to a long bench, where he laid her down. The padded cushions beneath her felt wonderful, and although she wasn't hungry, the sight of food in Brynjolf's hands made her mouth water. Poor Quilt had hopefully been noticed by the stable boy and given fresh water and hay.

"Stay with us, Prim," the redhead encouraged, propping a pillow under her head.

"I'll be fine," she muttered, grabbing bread from his hands.

She munched through two slices, Brynjolf patiently waiting and running curious eyes over the home's interior. It occurred to her that he'd probably never been inside Riftweald. Even Vald rarely seemed to be inside, spending most of his time in the yard. Prim glanced around for Mercer, and found him pacing behind Brynjolf's back like a caged animal. This amount of intrusion in one night was probably pissing him off.

"Gulum-Ei talked before he died," she said.

Mercer moved around the bench, and now she had two men staring down at her. She hated the awkward position, and found her eyes flickering between them before she settled on a point on the ceiling.

"I didn't get much out of him before everything went to Oblivion, but he said a woman approached him about Goldenglow and disrupting Maven's mead shipments. She offered good money, so he took it and hoped no one would know. He claimed to not know much about her, but said that..." She focused on the deepest gray in Mercer's eyes, and slowly formed the words. "She hates you. Whoever she is, she wants you dead."

Mercer and Brynjolf glanced at one another, something unspoken passing between them.

"He didn't get to say anything else, but I think he knew more," she continued. "And Henric," she sighed. "He was something else. Kept going on and on about Nocturnal and how she'd turned her back on him. He thought _I _was a daedra worshiper."

"Rest easy, lass," Brynjolf soothed, although his expression was troubled.

"Can you make sure Quilt's being taken care of? Or not," she quickly frowned. "The assassin is probably here in Riften, or they will be."

She swallowed and took another slice of bread.

"What do you think, Mercer?" Brynjolf asked. "We should move her to the cistern. There are more people there to keep watch."

Prim actually felt safer here, in Riftweald, but kept the thought to herself. Brynjolf was right about the cistern having more people, and she had no business forcing herself into Mercer's home. Mercer seemed to agree, quickly assenting while a black ribbon rolled between his fingertips.

"The guild's location is no secret," Mercer mused. "This assassin will already know where we are and probably how many of us there are. Did he always attack from a distance with arrows?" he questioned, eyes drilling into her.

"Always."

"Then whoever it is probably won't risk close combat. They'll keep their distance. If they wanted to directly attack us, they could have at anytime these past years."

"They wanted to stop Prim from getting here," Brynjolf concluded.

"For all we know, the assassin was after Gulum-Ei and targeted her by association. Or maybe the contract was for both of them. Either way, they might have no interest in the guild or knowledge of why Prim should die. Killers for hirer rarely care, and contractors rarely want them to know."

"Perhaps I could lure them into the open?" Prim contemplated.

"You haven't even healed, and you're talking about being bait?" Brynjolf questioned. "That's a fool talking, lass. You need plenty of rest before trying to slip through a noose."

"It's an idea," Mercer considered. Brynjolf frowned.

"I say we get her to the cistern for now."

"By all means," Mercer dismissed, giving him space to lift and carry Prim. She protested that she could walk, but the redhead would have none of it. Over his shoulder, she watched Mercer trail behind them to the door. He was distracted again, but not so much that he missed her studying him.

"Secure the guild," he ordered. "I'll be there soon." The door shut in her face, leaving her and Brynjolf alone under the night sky.

"Alright, lass. The ladder you'll need to manage yourself."

"I'm not a complete invalid," she grumbled, but was happy for his assistance nonetheless. Soon she was in her own bed, Brynjolf sharing enough information to satisfy curiosity and also caution everyone about possible intruders and assassins. His abbreviated version left much to be desired, but Mercer would share more later, he assured them. Then he was forcing more bread and cheese on her, and even get-better mead from Vekel. Her stomach was full, and her pain muted with treatment. In such a state she was finally able to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The quest line is probably familiar to anyone reading this story, so I breezed through the whole incident with Gulum-Ei, modifying it as I saw fit.


	3. Chapter 3

Watching the lass recover from the poison was more difficult than Brynjolf cared to voice. Her chest rose softly in slumber, sometimes hitching as her limbs twitched, her face twisting in agony. The sleeping potion kept her sedated as he handed a rag to Sapphire, who dunked it into cold water to cool Prim's forehead. The woman didn't bother hiding her concern, a troubled frown marring her pretty face as she sat on the edge of the bed, keeping watch lest Prim needed anything. She dropped the rag into a bucket of water, and heaved a sigh.

"First Goldenglow and Honningbrew," she griped. "Now assassins. What next?"

"I don't know," Brynjolf spoke. "But we'll get it sorted out one way or another."

She didn't respond, both of them staring at their patient in silence. Prim was still wrapped in his cloak, and it was hers until she awoke and felt ready to dress. With the potions in her system, there was no telling when that would be, and he didn't mind. He stood calmly in his armor, knowing that expressing his concerns would do no good, not for himself, Prim, or the guild. The cistern's air already snapped with anxious energy, confined and forced to wrestle with itself while the thieves were under order to remain in Riften. Mercer had threatened swift punishment for anyone who left, and not one thief had escaped being assigned a watch.

"What kind of poison was it?" Sapphire asked.

"I can't say, lass, but it's a miracle she survived."

"Not for our Prim," she said with a nervous smile. "She's too stubborn to die like that. Isn't that right?"

She looked at him as though she needed his confirmation, and he nodded with what he hoped was a reassuring expression. He had to remain stoic for the guild—to be a calming force in the midst of the darkness that was gathering around them. Thieves were accustomed to danger by the very nature of their work, but not everyone could face the threat of death with as much steel as Vex or Thyrnn. Vekel was jumpy; Sapphire stern but clearly uneasy. He personally felt the weight of the sword at his waist with more consciousness than usual, and in the back of his mind, was forever aware that Prim might yet die despite her insistence to the contrary.

_Pull through it, lass_, he willed. _We just found you. You can't leave us so quickly. _

And if she did, the pain would not be as easy to conceal as his current worry. She made it feel more like the old days, embracing them all, even taking to thorny Vex, and gods knew why, but Mercer too. He could see her mind churning before a sly smile would creep up her face, signaling that she'd just had a flash of brilliance. _Or brashness_, he considered. Like tucking a letter about Mara into Mercer's desk.

"Where's Tonilia with that potion?" he asked.

"Mercer said it was no good," Sapphire replied. "He said she needed something with yellow mountain flowers. He must know exactly what poison was used."

"We'd be so lucky," he murmured.

Mercer chose that moment to appear, striding across the cistern with a bottle in hand. The man's gaze scathed across the room, likely taking stock of who was present, and more importantly, who wasn't. The fool who wandered off would need an explanation for where they'd been and why. Brynjolf had those answers should the guildmaster demand them, and had given leave to Vekel and Tonilia to acquire supplies. The man looked sterner than usual as he set the potion on his desk, a sharp bark summoning Brynjolf.

"There," Mercer said, motioning to the bottle. "Have someone fetch another one in the morning. They are to get that exact potion."

"Aye, I'll make sure it's done."

"Is Vex back yet?"

"No, but..." The graveyard entrance scraped, and he turned expectantly. "That must be her now, and she's got company."

Thyrnn entered with the blond thief, his boots muddy and the red paint that habitually adorned his cheeks smeared. For a moment, Brynolf mistook it for blood, but the man didn't look injured in the least, even given an almost reluctant hitch to his step. He knew immediately where the thief had been for the better part of the night: tarrying with that woman near Ivarstead, the one whose breasts were larger than her brains for sighing so eagerly after the former bandit. Vex simply looked peeved, lips tight as she marched toward the desk.

"Where have you been?" Mercer demanded.

"Around," Thyrnn evaded. "I just found out about the attack."

"I ran into him while scouting the area," Vex stated. "Just as you asked."

"And?" Mercer rumbled.

"Nothing. There's no one suspicious close to the city." The woman glowered, jerking a thumb toward Thrynn. "But he claims to have seen something."

"I'm not claiming," the man shot back. "I did see something. I was coming along the lake when I heard a whistle." He imitated the sound, a shrill, double whistle that filled the cistern. "We used signals like that when I was with the clan. We'd tell each other whether a traveler was worth attacking or not. I thought I was going to be ambushed, but nothing happened. All I saw was...Shit, maybe it _was_ nothing, but I thought someone passed me. More like a shadow, but I swear it was a person. I saw the movement right by my shoulder—drew my dagger I was so certain of it. Then I turned and they were gone."

"We're dealing with an assassin, and you come back with ghost stories," Mercer sniped.

"I didn't say it was a ghost," Thyrnn grumbled.

"The whistle," Brynjolf considered. "There might be something to that, Mercer. Thyrnn would know."

"Agreed," the man leveled, leaning against his desk. "Is that all?" Neither Vex nor Thrynn answered. "Take your watch and don't bother me unless you clearly see something." When the two were out of hearing distance, his eyebrows lowered, nearing a glare. "Shadows," he muttered.

"Let's hope they guard us," Brynjolf uttered.

"Yes. Let's." He showed no response to Mercer's derisive tone, a cynical taint to the older man warning him against further comment on the matter. "Keep your eyes open. I want the city checked again when the watch changes."

"Aye."

Brynjolf swiped the potion from Mercer's desk, thinking himself dismissed, but the guildmaster's voice carried after him.

"I want the lantern by her bed lit."

"The lantern?" The cistern was already relatively well lit, extra lanterns having been scattered about for the night, but he'd snuffed the one by Prim's head, thinking it might be easier for her to sleep. Mercer's expression was unforgiving of his delay. "As you like," he slowly spoke, doing as ordered.

If he didn't know better, Mercer was taking Thrynn's shadow a little more seriously than suggested.

* * *

Prim awoke to the sound of muted voices. Brynjolf and Mercer were quietly debating at the cistern's desk, both wearing serious expressions. Whatever they were discussing, it didn't seem to be going well, and she watched as they parried back and forth. Brynjolf could certainly hold his own against Mercer, whose face she could more clearly observe than his. The two were such a contrast, even in their physical appearance, her groggy mind circling over details as she stretched her legs against the bed. She felt stiff and clumsy, her shoulder tingling. The cistern looked ready for a temple vigil with so many candles and lanterns strewn about.

Mercer and Brynjolf's conversation lulled, the latter moving in her direction.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked.

"Not long. Is everything alright?"

"We'll see. Mercer wants to speak with you. Did you take the potion he left?"

"Yes. I feel like I could hibernate for the rest of the winter." She rose, waving off his hand with determination. "I can manage. I'm not on my death bed." But her face paled when she fully straightened. "Damn. The floor feels like sand."

"Steady, lass."

They met Mercer at his desk, Brynjolf standing at her side. The guildmaster looked her over as if she were a green recruit again, and seemed satisfied enough with his findings.

"We can't send anyone on jobs outside of Riften until this is taken care of," he stated. "Anyone could be picked off, and we wouldn't even know. Delvin has contacted the Dark Brotherhood to see if this is their person, but the answer is probably no. Until we hear back, you are not to leave the cistern for any reason. They have three days to respond before we take care of the problem the hard way."

"And what's the hard way?" she asked.

"We'll kill them outside the city," Brynjolf stated. "On our own terms."

"A trap?" she guessed.

"Precisely," Mercer affirmed. "Our best guess is that they're after you since you were with Gulum-Ei in Solitude. If not, and they have larger goals, you're still guild bait. You'll draw them south down the old hunting trail. They'll need to enter the narrow rock path, and a bow won't do them any good in there. I'll be waiting. Niruin will keep watch from above with his bow, and follow you if and only if there's sign of pursuit. We're not certain the assassin is even here. Brynjolf will take over in my absence and make sure no one tries to take advantage of the guild. If it's my head they want," he darkly added, "And if they're half-way decent, they'll see me leave the city before I lose them."

"I understand."

"Good."

She looked to Brynjolf as she returned to her bed, sitting and pondering the recent turn in events. He sat beside her and stared at the floor, voice solemn.

"Mercer and I are the best fighters in the guild," he told her. "I hope you understand why only one of us can go. It might not seem like much protection, but with Mercer's sword and Niruin's bow, you'll be in good hands. I don't care how good the assassin is."

"I know," she assured him. "If both of you left and something happened here...Don't worry about me," she smiled. "Look. I'm already feeling better, and I just had a poisoned arrow through my body." She rolled her shoulder to demonstrate, and internally cringed at the pain it induced.

"I just wanted to be clear," Brynjolf said.

"I trust Mercer's judgement on this, Brynjolf. And yours."

"You trust him more than I thought you did," he gently considered. He offered her a smile, but his gaze was not without scrutiny.

"I said I trust his judgement," she corrected him.

"So you did, lass. So you did." And the playful lilt to his voice made her feel better. "I should let you get back to sleep."

"Wait," she said, grabbing his sleeve. "Do you know who would want to destroy Mercer and the guild?" Brynjolf hesitated, withholding information for the first time that she could remember.

"I have an idea," he admitted. "Mercer hopes to get the assassin to talk before he kills him. That will confirm it."

"And then you'll tell me"?"

"Then _he_ can tell you. He knows more than any of us since it involved him. Do you remember when I mentioned how Gallus was murdered? Well, it was a woman who did it, lass. She was a guild member and had worked with Mercer and Gallus for a very long time. The three of them went way back. One day Mercer showed up near dead, told us Gallus was gone, and that she'd nearly killed him too. There was infighting, and the guild almost fell apart."

"What?" She stared in open surprise, Brynjolf's face grim. "No one's told me anything about that. I can't...that's terrible."

"He can tell you the rest, if he chooses. We don't know if this is her work or not. Sleep, lass."

She weakly smiled and curled up on the bed, her sleep fitful and uneasy. There were visions of dark planes and running shadows, her feet flying across Skyrim with unnatural speed. Perhaps she could run like that forever, but she didn't want to run. She wouldn't run, damn it! The thought tore through her body with little impact, the wolf willing her to fight, and another voice, a woman, calling for her to keep running.

_"I could make you fast. You wouldn't run from shadows. You would be the shadows."_

Prim's wolf snarled in response, gnashing teeth angrily. She was back in Daggerfall, in a hallway rich with tapestries and women in fine dresses. Rose water. Silver. Wine. She spun and spun, turning under a man's arm, and then spinning into the night. She tucked a knife into her belt, and climbed a wall, fingers bleeding, the images turning faster than she could make sense of them. The assassins were coming. She knew it. Did the dark lady want her to climb the palace walls? Smile when she stole from the king?

The night sky was not a sky at all, but the robes of the lady, blotting out the sun.

_Leave me be!_

_ "Child, you know too little to be so confident."_

She sensed Hircine, and for a moment, saw his masked visage turning in her direction. She let go of the wall. Falling. Falling.

_"I won't fight over you, mortal."_

She hit the ground, and her eyes snapped open.

"Shit," Prim exhaled.

She was sitting in her bed in the cistern, drenched in sweat and panting. Her legs were hopelessly tangled in her blanket, a fresh potion on the floor beside her. She seized and drank it in one shot, its calming effects shooting through her trembling limbs. Was this the after-effect of the poison? She felt sick as though her body were still struggling to purge it, and marveled that she hadn't awoken anyone.

The cistern was silent but for the dripping of water, the interior still dancing with numerous flames. Rune and Cynric sat on the walkway, keeping watch and whispering, seemingly oblivious to her plight. That was probably for the better, but she didn't think she could sleep again, not immediately. The image of the woman robed in purple and black was troubling—a vision planted by Henric's strange words no doubt. Still, she regretted letting the man bless her in Nocturnal's name.

She slipped her feet into sandals and rose. With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she circled the edge of the cistern, waving to Cynric and Rune in greeting. Cynric joined her for several rounds, keeping her company and asking about Solitude. She was not in the mood for conversation though, and soon they walked in silence, part of her wishing that Brynjolf were present. He was not in his bed or to be seen. Perhaps he kept watch in the Ragged Flagon.

"I'd like to sit for a bit," she said, claiming a chair.

"Be mindful of the ladder, Prim," Cynric cautioned, leaning against the wall opposite her.

She nodded, looking to the nearby ladder that led to the graveyard. Was Henric's statue still in Quilt's saddle bag? She frowned, wondering if she might take and sink it in the canal. She had the most absurd notion to leave the cistern and do so, but she would need more than one daedra's blessing if she left and Mercer found out.

"I hope you're not thinking anything foolish," Cynric commented. "Mercer will have my balls if you sneak off."

"I'm not crazy, Cynric. And I don't want to risk your manhood."

"You've still got poison in your system. I can't be sure. He told me to keep an eye on you."

His tone was half-teasing, and she smiled. For the man's peace of mind, perhaps she shouldn't linger near the exit. Besides, what if the assassin showed up?

_ He's no match for an entire guild._

"Is Mercer here?" she asked. "He can't be at Riftweald all alone when it's his head this person might really want."

"Nah. He's in the Flagon."

"And Brynjolf?"

"Not sure. He was sitting with Mercer for awhile, but said something about checking on a horse. Made Mercer hornet mad." Ah, Brynjolf. She could always count on him. "Maybe you should grab yourself a seat in the Flagon. Vekel is probably abed, but he won't notice if you help yourself to a bottle or two."

"Yes, he will." But Prim followed Cynric's advice anyway, entering the Flagon from the adjoining tunnel with a careful tread. Candles burned atop the tables and bar, and lanterns lined the walkway where Dirge had stationed himself. There was only one other occupant, a lone sentry with his back to the wall. He was probably already aware of her presence, and she briskly passed the table he occupied, helping herself to a bottle from behind the bar.

She took a long sip while studying the shadows that crisscrossed the room, light catching objects from every angle. Her own shadow joined the dance, wavering as the lantern hung behind her head flickered. This was not the Flagon she knew, but an altered version that felt more like a tomb than a tavern. The candles might even be a prayer lighting for Henric's passing, and the notion caught her fancy despite the short time she'd spent with the man. Did they light candles for the dead in Skyrim? She'd seen the practice in Cyrodiil.

_You should have eaten before taking that potion._

And the mead wasn't helping, but she continued to sip it anyway. It helped her forget the pain in her shoulder, even if it dulled her focus. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she turned her attention to the man sitting so close to her. Mercer's chair was pulled away from the table, his legs spread out and eyes closed. She wasn't fooled though. He was always aware of his surroundings, and even now, was probably listening to her every move. Had he slept at all? He was in his guild armor, head leaned back against the wall.

Henric had not spoken highly of Mercer's lack of piety, although who would expect more of the man was beyond her. She thought of leaving, but instead grabbed another bottle and joined him. He drew his legs back, but otherwise remained still, leaving the bottle she set on the table untouched.

"I had a nightmare," she murmured. "I haven't had a nightmare I could remember in months."

If only Brynjolf were here. She was craving conversation, and the Nord knew just what to say. Instead, she was stuck with grumpy Mercer, who was either sleepy or couldn't be bothered to acknowledge her.

"I should probably let you sleep," she said, but didn't move. "Where's Brynjolf?"

"Having the guards check on your sodding horse."

"I hope he doesn't get hurt," she worried.

They sat in silence, Mercer's eyes still closed, perhaps a nonverbal attempt to force her to leave. She folded her arms over the tabletop instead, and laid her head on them. His face struck her as rough at the moment, not relaxed enough to sleep, although that was probably because she was lingering. Such a rare opportunity, she realized. With his eyes closed, she was free to openly study him, and with the mead warm in her belly, well, it seemed like a good idea. There was a barely visible scar low on the right side of his neck, long like a dagger had caught him, and his facial hair grew in an almost haphazard manner, no pattern or consistency to its direction.

"Henric thought I would worship Nocturnal because I'm in the guild," she said, more to herself than him. "He said that you're ruining the pious atmosphere. Strange, huh?" With a sigh, she almost let her eyes close. "I should never have let him bless me in her name. That was stupid of me."

"Yes, it was," Mercer sharply agreed. "You had nothing to gain from it except a daedra's attention. And the guild," he emphasized, "has _never_ been pious."

"Why would he think that I worship her anyway?"

"She's the guardian of luck and thieves. Like any daedra, deals can be made for power and wealth."

"Giving even a corner of your soul to one is foolish."

"Some might consider it a fair trade. Depends on how shrewd you are."

"And the eternal cost?" she questioned. "Having one meddle in your mortal life is bad enough." Hircine already had a claim to her. She didn't intend to offer more of herself to divines or daedra of any nature. The thought made her shudder, skin crawling as she recalled her nightmare anew. Mercer's eyes were slits, his expression unmoving.

"I suppose some people are more than willing to trade their afterlife. I'd rather not have someone think they own me," she considered, thinking of Aela. The woman truly seemed eager to hunt on Hircine's planes, and maybe that was a more fitting afterlife for such a person, but not for her. "What do you say, Mercer? Should we discuss souls and eternity until the mead turns my tongue to mush? Bah," she rejected with a scowl. "I can barely keep my vision focused right now."

"So go sleep," the man grunted.

"But you were angry at me," she insisted. "When you saw the ribbon. I want to know why."

He gazed at her quizzically, then exhaled as if she'd just asked the most tedious question in the world. Or maybe it was company that was wearing him down.

"I was angry at your stupidity," he answered. "You're smarter than Henric was. Satisfied?"

"I guess," she muttered, although there was surely more to it than that. She wasn't going to debate or argue with him tonight though. She was too tired. "It might have saved my life at least. At the river. There was a saber cat, and it walked within a foot of me and Quilt without looking at us. Nocturnal said that I had her blessing for the night."

Another wave of nausea struck her, and she gritted her teeth. It took willpower to keep her composure, nails biting into her palms as she fought the accompanying pain. Mercer lifted the mead she'd offered him, took a sip, and then set it close to her.

"Did you take the potion?" he asked.

"The one on the floor by my bed? Yes. Thank you."

She drank more mead, and returned her head to the tabletop, content to sit there with silent Mercer for company. His hair would turn completely gray in the next few years. Did he never get lonely keeping himself forever apart from his fellow thieves? Or maybe he didn't see it that way. Her eyes were half-closed as he studied the table's candle and she studied him. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"Must you always talk so much? If you had any sense, you'd be in bed."

She clamped her mouth shut and regarded him. Such an irritable man, but she didn't mind right now. Perhaps a smile even threatened her lips as she recalled his expression the first day she'd entered his bedroom with medicine—the frustration and disquiet as he'd allowed her to tend to him. The guildmaster was demanding and inconsiderate, true, but she wasn't sure she wanted him any other way. Maybe tomorrow, when she wasn't strung out on potions and alcohol, she'd recover a healthier dose of wariness.

"I'd better go before Brynjolf comes back," she decided.

"Sure," he drawled. "You respect his orders."

"I didn't leave the cistern," she argued. "Not really. The Flagon doesn't count. Tell him thanks for taking care of Quilt."

Mercer grumbled something about not being a messenger, and she shrugged. Let the man sleep and ignore her request. She didn't care as she returned to bed and bundled herself beneath a blanket.


	4. Chapter 4

The Dark Brotherhood remained silent. They were running out of time, and Mercer was running out of patience. This was a formality to maintain peaceful ties with the brotherhood, else his plan would already be set in motion, the assassin dead if present, and never mind if Prim was fully healed for the journey or not. He balanced a coin on its side, and let it stand on his desk, idly watching it waver. It remained upright until Brynjolf neared with a saddlebag thrown over one shoulder, a traveling pack on the other. The man didn't spare him a glance as feet angled around the edge of the cistern, heading for Prim.

The baggage could only be hers, but she had not left with two bags. Perhaps Henric had packed before their flight across Skyrim. Of more concern to him was the fact that Brynjolf had insisted on retrieving it this morning. Oh, the redhead said that he'd toss someone a few coins to do the job, but Mercer didn't believe that for a moment. In truth, there was probably little danger in walking outside Riften to grab some bags from the stable, but the man had _insisted_—taken a gamble for a fucking bag that held nothing of value.

"Brynjolf."

The man grounded to a halt and pivoted.

"Mercer."

"Let me see the bags."

His second walked around the desk and dumped the bags on the floor, horse hair fluffing into the air. Mercer hated the smell of stables and horses. They reeked of labor and peasants, farm life and people with nothing of value. He unbuckled the top of the traveling pack first, and found nothing of interest inside. Of course she hadn't acquired anything additional on her mission, despite wandering through a warehouse brimming with the best goods to enter Skyrim.

"Was there any sign of tampering?" he asked.

"None. The stable master heard the horse last night and took care of him."

He opened the saddlebag and reached inside, hands finding a heavy object wrapped in linen. He pulled it free, the statue's form clear enough even before he undid its bindings. Cloth fell away from stone black as night, features as perfect as any treasure he'd held, except this wasn't treasure. Disdainful eyes ran over Nocturnal's shapely form and outstretched hands, the smile on her face vague and knowing. Or not so knowing, not anymore. He ran a thumb over her tits for good measure.

"Why in Oblivion was she carrying that?" Brynjolf asked.

"Henric."

"I've never heard of someone carrying around their own little shrine."

"Most people have better things to do."

"Prim said that he made her uneasy. The man sure was devout. I haven't seen that kind of devotion since..." He wisely halted that line of thought before it went any further.

"Devout and a self-deprecating fool," Mercer considered.

He said nothing further, debating what to do with the statue before shoving it back into the saddlebag. He would wait and see what Prim did with it, her comments from last night probably of little consequence to her, but well worth remembering. He was willing to bet that she'd had dealings with daedra beyond Henric's unwanted blessing, but which one could she possibly have encountered? None of them seemed likely to attract her.

"I'm done," he stated, pushing the bags aside.

"Maven was looking for you."

"Maven can go to Oblivion." For the next few days at least. Brynjolf cracked a sharp smile.

"Never thought you'd voice your true thoughts on the woman."

Mercer hummed a noncommittal response, his thoughts elsewhere as Brynjolf departed. His lips slowly slid into a smirk, cruel and dark. Oh, if only poor, poor Henric had known the truth.

* * *

Prim was tired of being in bed, and tired of being sore. She had refused the latest potion, determined to no longer be drowsy, at least for awhile. Feeling alert was such a relief, and Brynjolf claimed that her shoulder no longer looked swollen with infection and poison. Thank the gods, because tomorrow she would be out in the Rift, wandering south unless the Dark Brotherhood came through with information. Either way, she was relieved that it would be over and that the thieves would again be able to roam free instead of being caged in their own guild, even if it meant trudging through snow on her own.

_Not on your own_, she corrected herself. Niruin and Mercer would be out there too, watching from the shadows, but with or without them, she would not be caught defenseless. She leaned over the edge of her bed and lifted her sword, testing her grip to be rewarded with nearly unbearable pain. Frustrated, she dropped the weapon onto the floor, the clatter drawing eyes toward her. Let them stare. She would be out in the wilderness and barely able to hold her own damned sword should an assassin attack.

She inwardly cursed and scooted into a sitting position, deciding that she would at least not be on her back for a bit. The potion she'd refused sat atop the chest at the foot of her bed, beckoning her with the promise of sleep and perhaps a more fully healed shoulder in the morning, but not yet. She was pissing potions at this point, and continued staring at the offending bottle until two bags caught her eye. They rested against the wall beside her, stacked and awaiting her attention. With little to do, she pulled them closer, knowing what hers held, but not what Henric had packed. She rifled through his belongings, blood slowing as she found a dark figure staring up at her. So he had packed the statue, but why should it bother her so? Nocturnal had seemingly departed, if it had been more than her imagination in the first place.

_Not just your imagination_, her mind whispered.

She stared at the statue, an uncanny sensation shimmying down her spine. She didn't like it. The beast didn't like, and she surely didn't want the statue nearby now that her existence had been brought to the daedra's attention. The cursed thing almost seemed to be staring back at her, the mouth inching upward into a full smile, but now she _was_ being fanciful.

"You alright, Prim?"

Rune was standing at the foot of her bed.

"Fine," she grumbled, flipping the saddlebag closed. The statue peeked out from beneath the flap, but just barely. She turned her eyes aside, and favored her fellow thief with a smile. "Tomorrow I'll be up and moving."

"Not if you don't take care of yourself." He lifted the potion, jiggling the bottle so its contents sloshed. "I stole this just for you. Brynjolf said it had to be this one."

"That's sweet, Rune, but..."

"The guards almost caught me leaving the apothecary."

"Oh, give it here," she relented.

He chuckled as she downed the contents, but it didn't taste like the last potion. It was too bitter and burned down her throat, leaving an acrid taste that seeped into every corner of her mouth. Her stomach jumped in protest, but she kept the liquid down with a swallow.

"You're sure that this is the right potion?" she frowned.

"If it tasted good, it wouldn't be medicine."

She was ready to sleep now, if only to forget just how terrible that brew had tasted. She laid back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for what felt like eternity. People passed her bed, crawled into their own, and changed the watch. She felt time passing in a trickle, or maybe leaps as she drew in and out sleep. Brynjolf was there to say hello. Sapphire brought her supper. Delvin made a joke about her tolerance for potions being worse than her tolerance for alcohol. And Mercer. What about Mercer? Her head lulled to the side, finding him there at the desk, sitting and staring at nothing in particular. No one approached him, and he approached no one, his need for sleep seemingly less than a normal person's.

She closed her eyes and dreamed of a dark river that sparkled with stars. She walked atop it, weightless, toward a room lined with doors. Each door was magnificently crafted, and no two alike as she drifted along them. They were all locked, but a key floated at the room's center, glistening like moonlight. She almost reached for, but retracted her hand, sensing something amiss.

_You're dreaming again._

Would this one be a nightmare? Perhaps not. She was not scared as before, although her beast was still displeased. It waited to pounce forth and snarl, yet there was nothing to attack, and the voice above her was soothing tonight, almost comforting as a force brushed against her back, guiding her forward.

_"My key opens many doors."_

_ I'm sure it does._

She lifted a hand, and touched the metal. Its coldness drew into her bones, and she hissed, suddenly wary as her feet ceased floating and crashed onto the floor. Her knees throbbed from the fall, making her stumble.

"_You don't want my key."_ The voice sounded vaguely amused. _"Very well. I thought that I might make this last offer now that you're more cognizant, but no matter. My touch is only strong enough for a taste, and you don't even wish for that. You could have my key, if only you knew more. But you are not ready. Perhaps never."_

_ Never._

_ "I have heard that before."_

The voice laughed, and it was a pleasant sound, but an undercurrent of condescension made Prim cringe. How could something be so beautiful and domineering at once? The key vanished, as did the room. She was on a plane again, consumed by darkness.

_Thank you for your help at the river, but I do not wish for anything more._

_"Run, wolf."_

And she did, headlong and feverish. Her stomach felt ready to burst, even as the cistern came into focus. She'd either run into reality again, or was stuck in an alternate world so near her own that it even smelled the same. She rolled onto her side with a groan, feeling sick as she scanned the room. She was awake, and everyone else abed, even Mercer no longer present. Was he in the Flagon, or had he grown tired of waiting and returned to Riftweald? She just wanted the pain in her stomach to stop, and stood, knowing that it was only a matter of time before she vomited. Best not to do it here and wake up the others.

She lurched toward the closest escape, down the tunnel to the training room. There were lanterns here too, but not as many as she leaned against the wall and heaved in the poor lighting. Her vision momentarily blackened, but she felt much better with her stomach cleansed. Was the poison to blame or that damned potion Rune had fed her? She cursed under her breath, and slowly straightened. Hopefully no one had heard her.

"Divines!" she gasped, jumping back against the wall. Her foot was in her own vomit, but she didn't care. Someone had brushed by her, touching her arm, yet no one was present. The room was empty, only shadows bending and playing with her mind. She was alone, yet as she turned, movement in the corner of her eye made her flinch. A shadow passed down the tunnel in front of her. An intruder? Weaponless as she was, she followed, feet reaching a jog as she reentered the cistern.

The person was gone, but her nerves pulsed with warning. If someone new were here, why couldn't she smell them? She shook her head clear as her stomach against twisted, and seized her sword from the floor, walking as quietly as possible toward the Ragged Flagon. It was the only place the intruder could have gone. Perhaps she should yell for help? But part of didn't quite believe that she was seeing properly. Who knew what had been in the potion she'd drank.

_There_, she frowned.

The shadow bolted from the Flagon's door, creeping along the room, but never stepping into the light. It slipped between the lanterns, fleeting and unearthly.

_You're seeing things. _

Her nose alerted her that Mercer was close, but she didn't hear or see him. Why was no one on watch? Frustrated, she refused to chase the shadow any longer, and returned to bed. She forced herself to lower the sword, head growing lighter by the moment, and her arm screaming at her from the exertion. She ordered it to shut up as she fell onto the bed, making those around her stir ever so gently. She didn't bother righting herself as she lay catty-cornered across the mattress, nose smothered by the smell of hay within, and her chin resting on the edge.

The statue was still there. Still staring at her. She scowled and closed her eyes, determined to sleep when something cold slid over her back. She shivered, eyes opening and fastening on Nocturnal's statue. The shadow was here, with her. On her. Gliding over her and its shadowed hand running over the statue in consideration. Her eyes bulged, pulse jumping.

"Get away!" she snarled.

With a loud crack, her sword passed through the shadow and struck the stone floor. People were awake now, scrambling as though the assassin were here. She wasn't particularly listening, and all of their voices were blending together anyway. Where was the shadow?

"I'm not going anywhere near her."

"Someone needs to..."

"Lass?" A hand wrapped over hers, gently prying her fingers from the sword. "Lass, I'm going to take this now. You're safe."

"I saw a shadow," she stated. "It was here, watching us."

"No one's here, lass."

She sighed and loosened her grip, allowing the weapon to be taken from her. Brynjolf was brushing her hair aside, his hand pressed against her forehead. She swallowed and closed her eyes, exhausted. These past few days were possibly the worst of her life.

"She's feverish again," he stated. "What are you all staring at? Make yourselves useful or go back to bed." She cracked her eyes open as he rolled her onto her back, neatly arranging her limbs on the bed. "Delvin, get something to clean her foot up. Lass? Can you hear me?"

"The shadow was here," she insisted.

"Your scowl could match Mercer's right now," he joked, voice soft. Perhaps the guildmaster was close. She thought to look for him, but then Brynjolf was cursing, true anger in his voice as he examined the empty potion bottle she'd left by the bed. "Who gave this to her?"

Brynjolf angry? She needed to see this, and tried to sit up, but a firm hand shoved her back toward the bed. Mercer. She growled up at him, the sound eliciting a questioning stare from him as he took the bottle from Brynjolf. He ran it under his nose, his face contorting with one of his finest scowls.

"Someone better have an explanation for this," Brynjolf bellowed.

Divines, but he was seriously angry, his voice reverberating with a force she'd never heard. Mercer absently fiddled with the bottle, staring at her with a measuring expression.

"I stole it from the apothecary," Rune stated, tone strained. "It matched the description."

"Did you get it from the work bench?"

"Yes. I mean, there weren't any more in the front of the shop like you said, so I thought..."

"This is one of Ingun's failures," the redhead snapped. "The ones she gives to me."

Prim's stomach churned at the very thought, her voice shrill.

"I drank Falmer Blood Elixir?"

Brynjolf laid a hand on her shoulder, calming her. She looked into his face, eyes wide and heart pounding. Had she just caught another glimpse of the shadow? Her head jerked toward its movement, gazing beyond Mercer, who alone seemed conscious of her seeing something. He turned and followed her gaze, that damned bottle still rolling between his hands.

"It's not deadly, lass," Brynjolf soothed. "I wouldn't peddle death in the market, but I don't know what you drank. Not precisely."

"I'm sorry," Rune sheepishly offered.

"You'd better be," Brynjolf sighed. "She's already in bad shape, Rune."

"And she should have known better," Mercer critiqued, turning back toward the group. "This isn't anything like the proper potion. She should have stopped before drinking the entire thing. But _you_," he sternly added, leveling a stare at Rune, "are lucky there's nothing left, or you'd be drinking the rest of it for your carelessness. Go back to bed."

"Here you go, lass."

Brynjolf pulled the blanket over her, right to her chin, but her hands protested, fussing with him and finally latching onto his tunic. She jerked him closer, his arms braced against the bed on either side of her head as she stared at him. The shadow. Nocturnal. Henric. Dreams. She practically barred teeth at the man above her, although not because of him.

"I want it gone."

"It?" he questioned. "What do you want gone? Just tell me."

"It!" she insisted, releasing him and almost falling from the bed as she grappled for the saddlebag. "Get rid of it."

"Lass. Prim! You're going to hurt yourself." He placed her back in the bed, and she stayed put with a glower while Brynjolf opened the bag, lifting Nocturnal's statue. He examined it with an air of uncertainty, hands wrapped tightly around the figure as he looked to Prim. "Is this what you want gone?"

"Yes. Bury it. Break it. I don't care."

He stared at the statue a moment before nodding. She watched him head for the graveyard, never looking back as he granted her request. She eased back down, breathing easier, although the shadow still troubled her. She looked to Mercer, thinking that he of all people might have seen it. He missed nothing, and was already watching her—no, ingraining her into his memory given how consuming his eyes were. She felt swallowed as she stared into them.

"I'm not making it up," she softly spoke. "Something was here."

"And gone just as quickly," he mused. "Next time," he breathed, lifting the bottle.

"Master Frey, don't rub it in," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. "Not right now."

He was still staring at her. She could feel it.

"Get some sleep," he ordered, finally drifting away from her. "We leave tomorrow. And I suggest you put your flame trick to use. Your lantern's out."

* * *

Three days elapsed, and the Dark Brotherhood stated that the assassin was not theirs. No contract had been drawn for Mercer, Prim, or anyone in guild. Free agents then, which seemed to suit Mercer just fine. No need to worry about an organization breathing down his neck for dispatching the nuisance and all that. Prim was almost calm as she stood outside the city gates, a cloak wrapped about her armor, and a sword on her hip. Her shoulder had yet to fully heal, but she was not intended to fight today. Today, she was bait.

"I'm here."

The whisper came from above, where Niruin sat on the city wall, nearly invisible in the shade of a battlement and his gray garb. He would have a clear view of her for some distance, and be able to see whether she was pursued. Depending on the direction in which he saw a follower, if he did at all, he would choose to pursue at a distance. He was not to be seen or risk being seen under any circumstances.

Prim said nothing as she set off on the southern path, keeping straight rather than turning westward along Lake Honrich. The hunting trail ahead of her was seldom traveled and thick with snow, making for slow progress. Surely the assassin would question why she chose this way, if he appeared at all, but two travelers had not previously deterred him. Nor had a great distance or a cavern full of Gulum-Ei's thugs. The man—or woman, she thought—was persistent.

She reached for her collar, and found her pendant, giving it a squeeze before entering the trees. Niruin would no longer have a clear view of her, although he could be trailing behind her even now. She focused on smell for her part, hunting for the faintest trace of a person. She only found wolves and deer, and for a moment, perhaps even Mercer. He was ahead of her or closer. For once, she hoped that he was as close as possible without her knowledge.

The path became rockier and steeper, great boulders scattered about, fallen from weathered foothills. Combined with the trees, an archer would be hard pressed to find a target, but the way was more difficult for her as well. Her progress slowed considerably, her injured shoulder begging her to stand still as snow drug at her heels. She was deep in the path now, and knew Mercer could be anywhere among the crags and pines. When it began to snow thick flakes that cast a white haze over the land, she cursed her luck.

A sharp whistle tore the air, making her press against a tree. Even with its realistic trill, she did not think it a bird—did not recognize the call, and her wolf had an excellent memory for such things.

_Please be close, Mercer._

But she would not rely on him. She drew her sword as a figure eased up the path behind her, barely visible in the clouded air. It was a man in oddly mismatched leather armor, or was that chitin? The design was foreign to her, goggles and a mask of some kind shielding the person's face. He whipped it off in the snow to reveal purple skin. A dark elf then, and he was peering ahead of him with a drawn dagger. Why did he have no bow? Or could she simply not see it? Prim knew something was amiss, but would have no choice but to confront him.

Another whistle, and she looked upward at the hill opposite her. She could see nothing move, but had a sick feeling someone was there. There were two of them, or was the other one Niruin? She scowled and sprang from hiding when the dark elf drew even with her, swinging her sword hard. He jumped backward. Too quickly, she realized, like he'd been expecting it. Her blade scraped his armor but nothing more.

"S'wit," he spat, eyes blazing.

He didn't attack with the dagger. No, he backpedaled, making her give chase, the infernal assassin. He danced just beyond the reach of her sword, finally jumping onto a rock and out of reach. She could not climb in her state, and he knew it, giving her a grin.

"We'll come back for you later," he promised, scrambling from view.

"Later...?"

Prim growled, a snarl darkening her features as she searched the hills, nose hard at work. The assassin was ahead of her now, and there was not one, but three. Three! And they had left her to pursue someone else. Mercer, no doubt, and the thought of three trained killers closing in on him made the howl working up her throat all the louder. They were going after Mercer and saving the weak to pick off last, but she was not weak. No, she was anything but weak, and if they thought that she'd run from Solitude in cowardice, they had a hard truth to learn.

_I cannot hunt them like this_, she realized, but to turn feral with bloodlust terrified her. And what of Mercer, she wondered. Could she stay here, useless while he fought? And if he died...

She threw her sword and armor aside—stood in the snow in nothing but a tunic and pants, and let the beast take over. Her blood pumped furiously, limbs contorting and skin stretching painfully tight. It hurt and thrilled her at the same time, to be free like this and snarl into the wind. She could smell them perfectly now, and was driven onward with urgency, teeth bared and mind wavering somewhere between human and animal. It was dangerous to surrender so fully, yet she did not care.

She heard the sound of clashing swords, and found the archer avoiding the fray. He did not see her until it was too late and his skull was in her jaws. She tore him apart, tasted his blood, and howled. The unearthly sound carried through the forest and snow, and reverberated down her limbs. There was a fight ahead, and she little distinguished the participants. A dark elf lay injured, and the other was losing against a man with a scent as familiar as her own.

The wolf paused, torn between charging and killing all three men, or perhaps waiting for reasons she could not explain. She came to the injured dark elf and finished him, muzzle slick with blood.

When she looked up, only one man remained standing, and he was posed to fight. She snarled at him and tensed for a charge.

"What's one more?" the man sneered.

Her ears straightened at the sound, her snarl easing into a gentle growl. The drive to kill warred with other thoughts, a woman's voice cutting through the fog to realize that hands belonged where claws now appeared. The man remained ready to strike, and even looked about to advance, but she could not stay. This one was not her enemy, and she would not fight him. She fled into the trees, adrenaline draining at a rapid rate and restoring her reason. If he hadn't known her secret before, Mercer would now.

* * *

Mercer Frey stood over the body of a dark elf, studying the long gashes that laid the man's chest open. There were bite wounds on the arms and face, the surrounding snow red and imprinted with enormous paws. Of everything he'd expected on his foray, a werewolf had not been one of them, and the creature had done a number on two of his three assailants. Watching the beast rip apart the archer had been more than bit distracting, earning him a close call with an elf's sword.

He stared in the direction the beast had taken, and considered his next course of action. Was Prim dead somewhere further down on the trail? Last he'd seen her, the elves had bypassed her, wisely favoring him as the more dangerous target, not so wisely letting him select a battleground of his choosing. It'd been too easy luring them away from Prim, who would have been nothing but a burden during the confrontation. She was supposed to be waiting on the path, but that said nothing of the blasted werewolf—a werewolf with deep brown eyes and a strange sense of patience or perhaps confusion. Why had it fled from him in the heat of bloodshed?

A quick search of the bodies revealed nothing, and he moved on. Let the scavengers or werewolf eat what remained of the Morag Tong.

He was walking away when a flicker of movement caught his attention. Most people would have missed it entirely, but he had not lived most of his life in the shadows for such subtleties to escape his notice. A figure wavered in the dark recess of several clustered pines, venturing no further than the shadows allowed. Mercer's stare was as sharp as the cold, his lips pulling back in defiance.

"Enjoying the show?" he demanded. "You'll fade to nothing, just like the others."

He knew that the being's energy was dissipating, being drawn back to its source, now sealed off from the world. Only a trickle remained, and what a pathetic trickle it was. Mercer paid the shade no further attention as he stormed down the path, cursing as wind blew snow down his collar. It did not take long to reach the location where Prim had been left, no doubt furious by the elves' quick dismissal of her—as if she could have fought properly in her injured state! She would have attempted it though, he was sure, battling on with deeper wounds still, even against a werewolf.

She was not where she should have been. There was no blood or sign of violence, but neither one of her. He knelt and lifted torn fabric from the ground, her discarded armor and weapon nearby. Deep footprints headed up the path toward where he'd fought, their outlines quickly disappearing in the fresh snow. Of all the fucking surprises life had thrown at him.

He hurried back up the path, following the werewolf's flight into the forest with as much speed as possible. The footprints began morphing, losing length and claws, and turning human. It was not much longer before he found her laying in the snow, completely naked and snowflakes sprinkled across her body. Her eyes were closed, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He ran eyes over every inch of her, finally able to see the hips he'd noticed through her armor. Any man would appreciate her flesh laid bare like this, and it was all his for the viewing. He wondered whether any of the other thieves had gotten to see this much of her, and how much they would like to. Greed was most satisfied when it had what someone else wanted.

She was incredibly warm to the touch, perhaps an after-effect of her transformation. Goosebumps were only beginning to form over her breasts as she stirred, eyelids slipping open to stare at him. His fingers swept over her mouth, lifting the upper lip to see the points of her teeth disappearing. She was pliable for a moment, open to his touch, but then her lips parted in a snarl, and she pulled away, almost feral in her behavior. He could see the flight instinct in her eyes.

"Shadows take you," he growled, tackling her. "I'm not chasing you again."

She thrashed about, growling and grinding her body against his. He seized her hands, and used his body weight to hold the rest of her down, well aware of her bare body squirming against him. Did she have any idea just how enticing she looked right now? How her hips begged to be seized and guided closer?

"Don't even," he sneered when a hand escaped and seized his hair.

"Master Frey?"

Her grip loosened, fingers sliding gently through his hair as she retracted them. She was shivering now, and he managed to wrap his cloak around her. He pulled her into a sitting position, adamantly refusing to loosen his hold lest she flee, and she leaned against his chest, her arms bundled in the fabric that he very much wished to be wearing.

"You are always such a hassle," he murmured.

She was staring at him with half-lidded eyes. She looked so damned innocent like that, even trusting as she pressed against him. He could leave her here and be done with it, even kill her if he chose. It would quell the uneasy sense of fate he'd experienced upon meeting her. Hadn't he expected Goldenglow to be the end of her? He'd sent her there fully intending her to die.

"Take me home safe?" she implored.

To leaver her or take her? He considered the matter before a reluctant grumble worked its way out of his throat.

"If you so much as scratch me, I'm dropping you."

He lifted her bridal style, taken aback when she snuggled her face into his neck, running her nose along the underside of his chin, against his stubble. The gentle but insistent movement made him frown in uncertainty as to her intentions, although it certainly seemed affectionate. Oblivion knew what was going through her mind when it was half animal.

"You smell so good," she whispered, breath fanning across his skin. "Why do you always smell so good?"

A question he could not answer. Her lips parted, pressing against his throat.

"Stop that, damn it!" he snapped. "If you bite me, you _will_ regret it."

She stopped, but kept her face pressed against him and did not remove it until he decided to carry her slung her over one shoulder. He did not know whether to be aroused by her actions or concerned that her wolfish side wanted to take a bite out of him. Niruin remained where he'd been atop the city wall, having never seen signs of pursuit. Mercer told him to return to the cistern and tell Brynjolf they'd been successful. It was his full intention to deposit his charge there as well, and he set her on her feet by the graveyard entrance, giving her shoulders a shake.

"Enough of this," he groused.

Would she have any recollection of nuzzling him? Nuzzle. Even the word sounded ridiculous, although under other circumstances, he wouldn't mind her making another attempt with just as little clothing. He'd imagined her bent over his desk more than once while listening to her question him, blurt idealism or standards that made him wonder why she'd chosen to embrace the guild in the first place.

Her eyes were focused on him now at least, and there was no shame, only confusion and a hint of alarm.

"We're here," he stated.

She turned and looked at the hidden entrance, quickly grabbing his hand when he reached to activate the tomb.

"No," she blurted. "I'm not..." She'd accidentally loosened the cloak, revealing her breasts and a fine trail of flesh down to her hips and lower. He followed the pale path remorselessly, smirking when she scrambled to cover herself. "I am not going down there like this," she breathed, frantic "The others can't know."

"Know what?" he taunted. "That you run around the forest with fur, eating people?"

"I was trying to help!" Her nostrils flared, but her hands trembled. She had never looked so desperate that he could recall, and he rather enjoyed the moment. Maybe the effects of her transformation had not completely worn off yet, not when she looked like she might flee at any moment. "Mercer, I would appreciate if this remains between us."

"You're telling me that no one else knows?"

"No one, not in the guild. I suspect you'd have figured it out sooner or later."

"I was wondering how you always knew when I was around," he lowly admitted. "You can smell me." She looked away with a small frown. "Anything else I should be aware of?"

"..No.."

Unlikely. After a moment's consideration, he stepped away from the cistern's entrance.

"Very well," he agreed. "It will be our little secret, but unless you'd like to sleep outside, we're going..."

"Riftweald," she insisted, making him scowl and reach for the entrance anew. "I'm not going...!" He covered her mouth, silencing her. Did she need to raise her voice so damn much? "Our little secret," she murmured between his fingers. Her lips brushed his digits with ragged breath, and she probably had no idea just how provocative that was.

Why in Oblivion should he listen to her confounded suggestions? But suddenly they were at the back door of his home, his arm wrapped around her, supporting her as she leaned into his hold, although not as eagerly as before. She would probably make a scene in her current state if he tried dragging her back to the cistern anyway, although it would be fitting if he just dumped her in the yard for the night. Instead, he lifted her through the door and left her on the same bench where she'd previously been, on her back atop cushions and covered in several blankets. She was already falling sleep, yawning and snuggling in.

_Unacceptable_, he thought, leaning down and tapping her forehead. She blinked up at him.

"Do not," he intoned, "think you can make a habit of coming here."

"Wouldn't dare."

He pulled away, staring at her a long moment before heading upstairs. He did not sleep easily, choosing to sit on his balcony instead, contemplating the rooftops of Riften. In the morning, Prim was already gone by the time he descended, back to the cistern and greeting him with reserve when he entered. His gaze lingered on her as she told Brynjolf all about the attack, omitting the rather important detail about her chewing on the dark elves.

_Our little secret._

He rather liked the sound of that.

* * *

**Author's note**: Thus ends this section, the rest to be continued if and when I have time. Thank you for the reviews. I'm glad to know that people are enjoying this and like how I write Mercer. I thought that he would be an easy character to write, but he's not. I also hope that the strange relationship between him and Prim feels natural and is unfolding at a decent pace. Cheers!


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